Виктория Холт - Louis the Well-Beloved

Charles Edward gave them a look of disdain. ‘Is this how the King of France honours his pledges?’ he demanded.

‘It is how he honours the pledge made to the King of England,’ said Maurepas.

‘I am not prepared to discuss my future with the King’s ministers,’ said Charles Edward. ‘If he wishes to break his promises to me, then let him tell me so personally.’

‘His Majesty wishes to make your going as comfortable as possible.’

‘So he tells his servants to order me out, eh?’ cried Charles Edward flushing scarlet.

‘Sir, you would be wise to leave before nightfall.’

‘Impossible,’ cried Charles Edward arrogantly. ‘I have arranged to attend the Opéra.’

* * *

That night at the Opéra was a glittering state occasion. Charles Edward arrived, a handsome figure, in a red velvet coat and a waistcoat of gold brocade. He wore not only the Order of St Andrew but that of St George, and when he entered the theatre, affably gracious and very charming, the audience rose to pay homage to him. He was exultant. He was more popular than he had been before his failure at Culloden. The people’s dissatisfaction with the peace – and with their King – had enhanced that popularity. It was most agreeable to the young Prince.

Suddenly a wild cheering rang through the Opéra house. This was beyond even his expectations. It meant that if the King and his immediate circle deplored his presence in Paris, the people did not.

What joy to see that in one of the boxes was George’s ambassador and his entourage! They looked stupid, gloated Charles Edward, in their astonishment.

He took his seat and the performance began.

He was so delighted with his reception that he did not notice that as the evening wore on there was a certain tension in the atmosphere. People whispered to one another, for the news had seeped into the Opéra House that over a thousand soldiers were stationed outside, and that they were posted at all the doors so that no one would be able to leave without permission.

Charles Edward, unaware of what was happening, passed out of the Opéra House, and as he was about to step into his carriage, he found his way barred by the Colonel of the Guards.

‘You would speak to me?’ asked the Prince haughtily.

‘I have a warrant for Your Highness’s arrest,’ was the answer.

The Prince looked about him helplessly, but immediately other armed men had come forward to join the Colonel.

‘I must ask your Royal Highness for his sword.’ The Prince’s face flushed with anger, but he was aware of the warning looks in the eyes of the Scottish lords who were his companions.

He hesitated for a moment, but he knew that a few cheers from the people could not save him from his fate.

He unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Colonel of the Guards.

‘This is a monstrous thing,’ he said. ‘I was offered refuge in France. If I had the smallest patch of ground I would not hesitate to share it with my friends. The French nation will be ashamed of this action.’

‘I must ask your Royal Highness to step into the carriage.’

Charles Edward shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

They bound his arms and legs with a silk cord, and the carriage left the Opéra House for Vincennes.

The people stood about in the streets and talked of the affair.

‘Such a handsome Prince,’ they said. ‘We shall miss him in Paris. A pity. Why should he be banished? Oh, I’ll tell you why. It is because German George says we must not entertain him here. German George? Oh, did you not know? It is not French Louis who rules this country. He stands aside for German George. That is, since we won the war, you know. It is all in the peace terms.’

* * *

Louis sent for Anne-Henriette and embraced her tenderly.

‘I thought, my dear,’ he said, ‘that you would like to see this.’ He handed her a letter which she saw was from Charles Edward.

‘Monsieur, brother and cousin,

I have felt much uneasiness because I was unable to communicate with you directly and found it impossible to reveal my true sentiments to your ministers. I hope that you will never doubt my affection for you, and as you desire me to leave France I am ready to do so at once . . .’

Anne-Henriette did not look at her father. She continued to stare at the letter.

This was the end of her hopes. It was the same heartbreaking conclusion which she had known before.

In that moment a great melancholy enveloped her, and she told herself that never again would she love anyone; she was twenty-two years of age and she believed that her life was over.

‘He has already left,’ said Louis gently. ‘He is on his way to the Papal city of Avignon. There doubtless he will stay until he has made his plans.’

She did not answer, and Louis, putting his arm about her, led her to a window. Together they looked out on the Avenue de Paris.

‘My little daughter,’ he said, ‘I understand your grief. But we cannot choose our husbands or wives. We have to learn to accept what is provided for us. And then we make the best of what we have.’

She thought how different it was for a king such as himself to make the best of his life. He had a very happy existence. He had his hunting, his gambling, his architecture and, when he fell in love, the woman of his choice was delighted to share his life.

There was one law for the King, another for his daughters.

But she did not tell him this. She allowed him to think that she was comforted.

All the Court wondered how long the reign of the Marquise would last. She was clever, they were ready to admit that, but could she continue to hold the King?

They did not doubt her wisdom. She gave herself slavishly to amusing her lover. She must do everything that he demanded, and do it superlatively well. The King’s interests were hers; if he wanted to hunt, so did she. Was it cards? There was the Marquise, scintillating, cautious or gay, whichever mood suited the King’s. Was he melancholy? The Marquise could be trusted to remember some spicy bit of scandal to make him laugh.

All she wanted was to please him. It would be difficult for a man of Louis’ temperament to find fault with that.

But there was one flaw which prevented her from being the perfect mistress.

Sexually Louis seemed insatiable. His courtiers discussed him freely. Being men of great experience in this direction they understood him well. Louis was not yet awakened to sexual maturity, which seemed strange in a man of his nature. He was deeply sensual but there had been ingrained in his character a sentimentality which was incompatible with that deep physical need. It may have been due to his upbringing. He had been kept innocent under the alert eyes of Villeroi and Fleury, and he was taking a long time to throw off their influence.

In the midst of his highly immoral Court he had remained a faithful husband, and only the lack of response from the Queen had sent him to Madame de Mailly. To Madame de Mailly he had for long remained faithful, as he had to her sisters whom he had mourned sincerely and deeply for some time after their deaths, when he had abstained from love-making altogether.

And now with the Pompadour he was the faithful lover. There had been temptations of course. It was remembered that at a recent ball he had shown some attention to a beautiful young woman. But the Pompadour’s spies had quickly warned her what was happening and, in her graceful way, she had the young woman hurried out to her carriage and driven away from Court; and Louis had not been sufficiently interested to prevent this happening.

But could Madame de Pompadour continue to hold the King as her lover?

The truth was that Madame de Pompadour was not a healthy woman, and the exhausting life she was living was beginning to make its mark upon her.

It was said that she owed a great deal to her cosmetics, and without them could not at times hide the fact that she was weary and not in the best of health.

She had a cough which only her enormous will-power suppressed on important occasions. And she was tired.

Could a tired woman keep up with the constant demands of the King? She must plan his entertainments, hunt, play cards, act, sing, dance far into the night. This she did with a grace and charm which could not be rivalled.

But how did she fare later during those nights when it was even more important that she please the King?

The Court was alert.

Was Louis changing? was the eternal question. For how long would the faithful attitude continue? He would not of his own accord turn her out; he was too easy-going, too anxious to avoid embarrassment.

But a new mistress might do what Louis shrank from doing. They had seen what had happened in the case of Madame de Mailly.

How long then would Madame de Pompadour continue to hold her position at Court?

* * *

There were two men who were eager for her dismissal: Richelieu and Maurepas.

Richelieu, as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, considered himself the King’s counsellor in the choice of mistresses, and he had not chosen Madame de Pompadour. From the first moment, when she had seen the King in the Forest of Sénart, she had worked entirely without help. He wanted to replace her by a mistress of his own choosing.

Maurepas had made no attempt to ingratiate himself with her. He had continued to amuse with his satires and epigrams concerning the most interesting topics at Court, and naturally the King’s mistress must be one of these. He had taken a mischievous delight in discovering the truth about her origins, and had attacked her on this. At least he had done so with a certain amount of anonymity, but the spate of songs and verses which were quoted in the streets were in his style, and few were in any doubt as to where they originated.